


Twitch

by orphan_account



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Light Bondage, M/M, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4134369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their triumphant return to the Lost Light, hand in hand, Ratchet discovers one of Drift's quirks and exploits it, to Drift's unconventional pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twitch

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for [Spacedrinks](http://spacedrinks.tumblr.com/) Hope you like it :D

After the initial three days of excitement following his arrival quelled, Drift thought he could finally start to unpack. He hadn’t left the Lost Light with much, but he’d returned from his unlikely adventure with a few souvenirs. Since he’d come aboard, Rodimus had tiptoed around him, Ultra Magnus had grilled him extensively and Megatron…Drift didn’t know what to make of Megatron. He couldn’t omit Megatron’s history, and having to adjust to his constant and almost unassuming presence was unsettling. With Megatron’s newfound position of prominence aboard their ship, Drift was likely to find taking orders from his ex-commander uneasy.

            The room he’d been allocated wasn’t his old room, but it was almost an exact replica of it. Like a mirror image, even though everything seemed a little out of place to begin with. Drift spent much of the early evening contemplating the imbalance of spatial energy filling the area and how to rectify it. It never occurred to him, that his grubby aura might be tampering with his orientation in the room.

            Drift fiddled with the ornaments, few though they were in number, pushing them forward and backward, up and down the shelves and sighing each time his subtle adjustments solved nothing. Fortunately, time elapsed and Ratchet soon arrived to save Drift before he drove himself to distraction baffling over the room’s arrangement.

            “Time to go,” Ratchet stood in the doorway, keeping it open.

            Drift had just set down a glass figurine on a shelf and grimaced.

            “What, already?”

            “It’s eight o’clock.”

            The revelation made Drift shudder, he’d intended to do more with his free time than just fuss over the unpacking. It was fortunate Ratchet was already well acquainted with the new whereabouts of Drift’s room too keep Drift active when his mind turned to lead and pinned him down in solitude.

            “Come on,” Ratchet urged, jerking his head toward the vibrant light of the corridor that looked most hostile to Drift. Despite that, he left his great swords in the corner and tip-toed into the lime light. Suddenly, he felt horribly exposed, the route to Swerve’s was familiar yet Drift felt out of place. His insecurities attacked him.

            “I don’t know about this, Ratch’.” Drift wasn’t objecting to a few drinks with a friend, but he wouldn’t complain if Ratchet chose to suddenly have a change of heart and take Drift back to his quarters instead.

            “Don’t act so nervous, kid, you’re making me edgy.”

            Drift ironed out the stoop in his posture so it looked less like he was cowering and occupied the space beside Ratchet with feigned confidence instead of hogging the doctor’s shadow.

            “I’m just saying. People don’t _forget_ stuff, y’know, like Overlord, remember him…remember the whole reason I was put of the ship”-

            Ratchet vented hard and his optics rolled,

            “How many times…” Ratchet’s muttering evolved into a harsh snap, “ _Nobody_ still blames you for that. If you keep on avoiding everyone, you’ll make more people uncomfortable than just yourself. Rodimus confessed that he had as much to do with the scandal as you did, and everything still tolerates him,” to an extent. Ratchet had limits.

            “I know but”-

            “But nothing.”

            “But Ratch’,” Drift stared at him with an expression that pleaded for support. The entrance to Swerve’s bar was looming, and as the palpitations unsettling Drift’s core grew, their rhythm generated a flux in his EM fields that Ratchet was susceptible to. Awash was second-hand apprehension, Ratchet brought them to a standstill in the middle of the corridor.

            “Listen, will you just trust me on this?” Apart from patting on Drift’s shoulder, Ratchet squeezed Drift’s hand, “No one is still mad at you, all the proof you need of that is in Swerve’s. _Believe me._ ”

            Ratchet wasn’t gentle when he tugged on Drift’s hand and urged him nearer the threshold, but it was enough encouragement to see his part in the plan completed as they stepped into the bar.

            “But _if_ it is awkward can we”-

            “ ** _SURPRISE!_** ”

            Streams of colour and the bang of party poppers bombarded Drift the moment he put a foot over the doorstep. All the faces staring back at him were beaming and their effect was as they’d desired. Drift was surprised. So astounded that he was quite disbelieving and looked to Ratchet and then to the sign hanging over the bar for confirmation. The mutilated length of cloth had several names printed (and struck off) on it already - WELCOME THUNDERCLASH, WELCOME ORION PAX and now, WELCOME BACK DRIFT! Was squeezed onto the rapidly depleting white space on the sheet. It proved that all the unprecedented festivities were indeed aimed at Drift, and not some other mech, who happened to enter Swerve’s at the same time.

            “See,” Ratchet gave Drift’s hand a squeeze, “What did I say?” No need to be nervous at all.

            If Drift hadn’t struggled with sobriety for eons, his first reaction would’ve been to ply himself with high grade. His nerves were frayed, but in a happy sort of way that brought the energon rushing to his helm.

            Everyone had been summoned to the bar to part-take in his welcome party. The maintenance of the Lost Light was left in the reliable hands of a skeleton crew so that the event at the bar would hopefully go uninterrupted.

            Drift was quickly surrounded by the mechs he feared would want to shun his company. His newfound popularity was overwhelming. He was patted on the back, Rodimus even made a speech, introducing Drift to their mission’s latest recruits as if he was some sort of hero. The term, _Quest Veteran_ was flourished, but considering he’d been excluded from the most recent and fairly notable events of their chaotic mission, Drift couldn’t say he embraced the title.

            At last, the excitement over his return was projected elsewhere, mostly favouring Swerve’s unlimited source of high grade, and Drift could escape the spotlight for a fleeting instance to rejoin Ratchet at the bar.

            “You promised me a quiet night,” he grumbled, shifting stiffly onto a barstool. Ratchet laughed into a his pitcher.

            “Will you lighten up? This is for you, everyone’s happy to see you!”

            “I can’t believe it.”

            Ratchet extended his hand and, with unexpected strength due to a tank warmed by high grade, struck Drift hard enough to wobble him on his stool.

            “You should be proud.”

            “Damn right he should!” Rodimus appeared behind them suddenly, and jabbed his fingers into Drift’s side. It was an unusual way to greet a person.

            Ratchet watched Drift convulse on the stool, his body shrinking down as Rodimus dug his fingers between Drift’s plating and gave Drift’s circuitry a zap of stimulation. The noise produced by the action was comical, and shudders shook Drift’s body from his core to the tips of his excessive kibble.

            Deep, wheezing gasps gathered a lot of attention. The other mechs in the bar adopted quizzical expressions as they craned their necks toward the unusual sights and sounds erupting next to the bar.

            “Rodimus! Stop it!” Drift honked.

            On command, Rodimus’s fingers slipped free of Drift’s armour, and Drift sagged on the stool. But the momentary feeling of relief was snatched away quickly when Rodimus snapped into a pose that threatened to tickle Drift again.

            “Gerr off!” Drift brayed through his chagrin, and tension pinched his cheeks, Ratchet couldn’t tell if Drift was grinning or trapped in an ugly cringe while Rodimus looked accomplished. He was greatly pleased by the considerable success his endeavour had achieved and now, Drift flinched every time Rodimus so much as twitched his fingers.

            “Same old Drift! Good to have you back, _buddy_.” Rodimus draped himself across Drift’s shoulders nuzzling his cheek affectionately into Drift’s to Ratchet’s obvious distaste. Rodimus’s weight was bending Drift’s torso further and further across the bar.

            “You _promised_ you wouldn’t tell anybody.” Drift muttered through clenched teeth.

            “Tell anybody what? That you’re ticklish? I was just checking to make sure it was you, and not an alternate Lost Light doppelgänger born of Quantum Entanglement.”

            “What?”

            Disregarding Drift’s confusion, Rodimus hugged him a bit tighter before finally peeling himself off Drift’s back.

            “Anyway, good to have you back. My sword fighting’s coming along leaps and bounds, I’ll have to show you. Swerve! Two more please,” Rodimus dropped onto the next stool and absorbed all of Drift’s attention like a sponge. Ratchet quietly mitigated the conversation, interrupting when he thought Rodimus was getting a little _too_ personal. It never deterred Rodimus from blathering on, and each time he flourished his hands Ratchet saw tremors of defensive anticipation vibrate the sinuous contours of Drift’s waist.

            Ratchet never knew that Drift was ticklish. They’d spent a lot of personal time together, especially on the journey home, in the cramped confines of the shuttle. Ratchet was surprised he hadn’t unearthed such a delicious discovery. Moreover, Ratchet wondered how _Rodimus_ had found out Drift’s quirk.

            With high grade’s woozy influence guiding his hand, after several long hours of listening to Rodimus drone on, Ratchet stretched out and stroked a fingertip down the arch of Drift’s spine.

            Immediately, Drift reacted, back bending away from the contact.

            “ _Ahh!_ ”

            The sound was unstoppable. Drift slapped his hands across his mouth to keep the rest of the noises smothered inside.

            “Ready to go yet?” Ratchet had a fiendish look about him, he realised it wasn’t only Drift seeing it and Drift seemed more or less relieved to escape Rodimus’s declamation of heroics given in graphic detail.

            The heat of the party had dwindled steadily. It felt like the right time to steal Drift away without suffering any objections.

            Rodimus prodded two fingers once more into Drift’s side to make him squirm as a parting gift. Drift produced a laughable, strangled sound and left the bar in Ratchet’s company looking endearingly sullen.

            “Glitch.” Ratchet heard Drift mutter. For protection, Drift crossed his hands over his middle and hugged himself all the way back to the hab suite.

            As much as Ratchet was keenly anticipating a night of exercising his old joints, he hadn’t expected to be manhandled onto his belly quite as roughly as he was.

            “Slow down, kid!” Ratchet was close to biting his knuckles, his insides were made sleek and pliant and before he had any chance to reciprocate, Drift bludgeoned his spike inside. “ _Ugh,”_ Ratchet rarely felt quite as full as he did when Drift was pumping inside of him. Ratchet’s ceiling node was agitated over and over by the bruising force of Drift’s thrusts, and the swash of the high grade lining Ratchet’s tanks was a heady tonic stimulating the heat of overload to pool quickly between his legs.

            Drift gripped his hips hard and held Ratchet flush to his groin as he rolled his whole weight into Ratchet’s body. The strength of Ratchet’s arm’s failed and he collapsed onto his elbows with a loud yelp.

            _“Oh Primus_ ,” He was almost singing as his optics rolled to the back of his helm and he felt Drift’s spike twitch hot fluids into his greedy valve.

            The freshly fragged feeling was a gratifying reward, even if Ratchet hadn’t overloaded himself. He didn’t mind that as much as he used to.

            Drift pulled out slowly, savouring the wet clutch of Ratchet’s valve chasing after his every inch. The departure sucked out the volume of Drift’s deposit. Ratchet felt fluid ooze out of his aft and seep down his thighs.

            Without the constant motion, Ratchet got cold quickly. He was glad when Drift finally stopped admiring the view and tiredly flopped onto his side. Ratchet joined him, sidling into Drift’s open and welcoming arms, breathing in spare body heat.

            “You were quick tonight,” Ratchet meant it as an observation. It was a joke between them that Drift’s spritely youth hogged all the stamina in their relationship. “Is something up?” Drift smacked his lips tiredly, and nestled Ratchet comfortably closer.

            “n’yeah, nah, just,” Drift yawned, “…feeling a bit sleepy, I’d rather do this.” Despite saying so, Drift proceeded to squirm and Ratchet bit back his theory that there was something else playing on Drift’s mind as he was purely content to enjoy a peaceful night together. If he remembered in the morning, he’d ask then, but when they came online the following morning, other priorities consumed Ratchet’s consciousness. An impending duty shift in the medical bay made Ratchet leave in a rush, giving Drift a kiss goodbye and making Drift promise to join him for lunch. Ratchet didn’t doubt that after last night Drift would fee more comfortable mingling at his old haunts, but as Drift was prone to hiding away until needed, inviting Drift to the medical bay ensured that Drift would have to leave his hab suite at least once that day.

            Despite Ratchet’s belief, Drift did have some obligations that dragged him out of his room that day. There were many meetings and orientations that required his attendance. It had been a very tedious morning made even more of a chore by mechs who’d witnessed Drift go into spasms last night when Rodimus touched him. Now they tormented him in the corridors. Drift was unused to be cooed at like a young mech, he was proud, but his juvenile reactions betrayed him. It was flustering, Drift made all of his journeys swift, trying not to pause long enough to invite any antics. But being teased was unavoidable, and as Drift marched into the medical bay, he walked directly into Blaster, who jerked his fingers in Drift’s direction, wiggling them like the crawly legs of a spider. Ratchet could’ve sworn he saw Drift’s lips draw back over his teeth in a snarling reaction.

            Blaster swatted outward with his hand and laughed off Drift’s aggression as he tottered toward the door, humming a happy tune. After his departure, Drift’s neck sunk deep into his shoulders and he waddled across the room to Ratchet defensively, carrying a sense of foreboding worthy of storm clouds.

            Ratchet was keen to take his lunch break and set aside his duties in favour of the two lukewarm cubes of energon Drift had arrived with. Ratchet gave First Aid _the nod_ as he entered the office, signalling First Aid to overtake the duties of a CMO. It was good practice for him, but the med bay was always left feeling inexplicably different when Ratchet returned.

            “Are you alright?” Ratchet asked, noticed that Drift’s moody countenance had become a fixed feature.

            “I’m going to kill Rodimus.” Drift sounded alarmingly serious, but Ratchet knew him better than that.            

            “I can’t say it wouldn’t be deserved, but why?”

            The clouds of obscurity thickened as Drift showed a reluctance to confess his reasons. He rolled his stiff shoulders and eventually decided the outcome might be worth suffering the trouble of explaining.

            “You know the other night, at the party?”

            “Hmm?”

            Drift looked delectably shy. It was enticing, Ratchet would rather have his hands wrapped around Drift’s waist right now than hold a cube of energon.

            “People won’t stop tickling me, and it’s…it’s not something I enjoy!”

            “You don’t like to be tickled?”

            “No! Well…not exactly. It’s just awkward… “ Drift dipped his head down and the prongs jutting from his helm twitched. Ratchet gave in to impulse and set aside his energon. His arms closed round Drift’s waist from behind, hands stroking _too gently_ down Drift’s side and he held Drift’s body flush against his own when Drift whined and tried to squirm away.

            “Awkward how?” Ratchet teased, fingertips drumming faster on Drift’s seams. The wriggling became less of a struggle and more of a _grind._ Ratchet was delighted to feel Drift’s aft bumping against his crotch and a little intrigued, “Oh.”

            Drift made a needy sound, bending forward slightly for pleasure.

            “It doesn’t make me happy, it just makes me”-

            Ratchet was given enough incentive, one hand immediately sped downward and cupped Drift’s warming interface array through his panel.

            “ _Ah!”_ Drift pushed into the contact, “And it’s not fair, _unnf_ , to be _that_ revved up in a public place and n-not be able to do anything about it.” Ratchet’s fingers worked into the small seams of Drift’s groin, doing enough work to tempt Drift’s housing to peel back, but just as the armour started to unlock, Ratchet’s hand flattened across the growing cracks and squashed the panel closed.

            “Not yet.” He whispered, nibbling the parts of Drift’s helm that were suitably shaped for sucking.

            “When?” Drift’s patience was scarce, he pushed back harder into Ratchet’s hips, reaching up to stroke Ratchet’s lips and entice him into breaking. Ratchet had very nearly supped on the whole of Drift’s fingers, laving his tongue between joints and closing his lips near Drift’s knuckles when a knock sounded on the door and disturbed them.

            They bounced apart sharpish. Ratchet cleared his throat and hissed,

            “Later,” and then beckoned the hand at the door to enter.

            First Aid looked sheepish when the door slid apart. He had a problem he needed Ratchet to oversee. So much for _good practice_. Ratchet took his lunch rations into the medical bay and swore to Drift that they’d pick up the _conversation_ where they left off later that night. An air of disappointment clouded Ratchet’s head. Drift’s optics flashed, as Ratchet watched Drift disappear his interests roamed and lusted after the bold curves that swayed as Drift walked.

            First Aid’s problem that robbed Ratchet of his lunch break had been trifling and easily fixed. Ratchet hoped the Assistant CMO felt embarrassed because after Ratchet’s time had passed there’d be no one to oversee his poor judgment when First Aid second-guessed himself. First Aid twittered a hopeless explanation as he rectified the issues in his testing for microscopic nanoscraplets in Dogfight’s innermost energon, and Ratchet quickly lost interest. The voice talking at him faded to obscurity as Ratchet took little sips on his energon and planned out the evening ahead. The thoughts he conjured were delectably sly and the tingle of anticipation that crawled up his thighs made Ratchet’s afternoon hellish. He eagerly counted down the minutes until he could leave, but the clock seemed to move slower and slower. As much as thinking of tickling Drift into overloading ate up a lot of his attention, it couldn’t distract him entirely from the sideaffects of his delectable imagining.

            First Aid made a noise and claimed that Ratchet didn’t seem like himself, that afternoon. If only he knew, Ratchet would see First Aid blushing through his mask. For posterity’s sake, Ratchet shrugged off the observation, and persevered with his duties until the final minute of his shift was done.

            His departure was prompt. As soon as Ratchet put a foot beyond the medical bay threshold he was accessing his comms. and planting every seedy image he’d conjured into Drift’s head, in the hope Drift would fleetingly share in the discomfort Ratchet had suffered all afternoon.

            Drift was puffing and out of breath before he even entered Ratchet’s hab suite. Ratchet snatched up Drift’s wrist and yanked him inside, pulling the mech immediately against his lips and walking him backward toward the berth. Drift hummed, their teeth clashing awkwardly as they collapsed onto the recharge slab.

            Ratchet’s weight pinned Drift under him. He leaned up, and admired his prize with hunger. Then, he lunged forward, his fingers following the paths travelled by many others that day, putting specific attention on Drift’s transformation seams until Drift was snorting and bucking wildly under Ratchet, but he couldn’t go anywhere, couldn’t escape - Ratchet was straddled over Drift’s waist, trapping him in within range of this exclusive brand of torture.

            “Stop! Stop it!” Drift honked, laughing so hard he began to choke. Ratchet was not entirely devoid of mercy. He relented, and allowed Drift to catch his breath while Ratchet indulged in visual pleasures. Drift’s smile made his spark throb.

            “Laughing is a good look for you.” The weight of his hips shifted rhythmically and Ratchet was unaware of his effect.

            “Shut up!” Drift grasped. Ratchet squeezed his fingers into Drift’s waist, where the metal was supple and tender and watched Drift suffer his growing smile.

            “I’m serious!” Ratchet protested, “It’s nice to see you…looking so happy.” The cloying intension of the comment earned Ratchet as despicable side-eye.

            “ _Are you feeling okay?”_

            Ratchet dived forward again, burying his nose in Drift’s neck and every nibble made Drift’s body spasm hard.

            “Okay, _okay!_ Enough!” A hot flush spread through Drift’s body, and he sighed in defeat. Ratchet nuzzled his face harder into the curve of Drift’s neck and felt Drift’s body seize up and grind helplessly against him before Ratchet leaned back and eased the pressure of his heavy weight off Drift’s middle to roll onto his side. “You’re being so soft!”   

            Ratchet couldn’t understand how anyone would object to that. The corners of his lips curled and he attempted to tease Drift’s into doing the same by stroking Drift’s lips with his thumb.

            Drift swatted his hand away.

            “Get off!” He laughed. Ratchet refused to believe Drift was serious.

            He pounced on the mech, wiggling his fingers all over Drift’s warped sides until he was thrashing maddly and delivering deep, honking laughs. Gradually, the sounds coming Drift were no longer the product of a startled reaction. He started to moan.   

            “You see!” Drift bawled, “I hate it when people do this to me in public!”

            In his onslaught of busy fingers, Ratchet had gradually worked his way on top of Drift again, and slowly retreated down the length of his body. Ratchet’s knees slipped off the berth first and then much of the rest of him - Ratchet was poised over Drift’s interface, licking his lips and savouring the minute shift of Drift’s hips intended to win the attention of Ratchet’s mouth, which it did. Just not in the way Drift yearned for.

            Ratchet squashed it lips over the panel immediately above Drift’s interface and blew a hard, fat raspberry. He had to pin Drift’s hips to the berth to avoid being thrown off as Drift rebelled, the breathless, blissful wheezes prompting Ratchet to put more pressure behind his breath until his finally ran out of puff.

            Drift sagged when he was released and thought the tormenting was over, until Ratchet’s engines buzzed a hungry rumble, and Drift was alert again.

            “I had no idea you were this sensitive,” Ratchet arched his brows. As if the fuss Drift kicked up wasn’t enough proof, dampness coated the hairline seam that marked Drift’s interface housing, Ratchet leaned forward, and inhaled.

            “What are you- _ah-ha!”_  Drift flinched upright. Ratchet dragged his tongue broadly across the leaky mess seeping out of Drift, but before he completed lapping to circumference of Drift’s panel, his helm was being pushed at.

            “Stop!” Drift squeaked, more lubricant bloomed through the seam, replacing what Ratchet had licked clean.

            “Don’t you like?”

            Drift groaned between his fingers, big, beautiful thighs spreading wider.

            “My laugh is embarrassing.”

            “No it’s not.” Ratchet nuzzled Drift middle, feeling every shiver and shake, “I love hearing you laugh.” and he gave Drift a meaningful look: The awful kind that broke barriers and gave Drift’s spark inexplicable flutters. Ratchet continued, “But I can’t have you squirming all the time and pushing me away.” Old joints stiffened from being knelt on the floor for too long, Ratchet used Drift’s knees as leverage and eased out of his squat, rising high enough to encourage Drift to stoop, and when their noses touched whispered, “What am I going to do about that?”

            If Drift’s reflexive impulses were going to be an issue, then Ratchet had already come up with a solution, should Drift agree to it. Following Ratchet’s instruction, Drift arranged himself on the berth, kneeling. His extended kibble quivered when he saw Ratchet approach the berth with a few _items_ he had conveniently tucked away in his storage. 

            “Am I going to like this?” Drift’s concern wasn’t entirely disguised, he twitched with cautious interest.

            There were two lengths of fabric clutched in Ratchet’s hands, he yanked them taut and they hit each other with a powerful snap. Drift flinched. One length of fabric was shorter than the other, Ratchet discarded the longer counterpart as he shuffled onto the berth and it landed beside Drift’s knees.

            “I think you will, if you give it a chance.” Ratchet leaned against Drift’s back and mouthed softly across the edge of Drift’s red armour. Aside from the suspicious strands of dark fabric, Ratchet produced another curiosity that he’d been hiding in his hand to whet Drift’s interest.

            “What’s that?” Ratchet waved the strange, wispy object in front of them both. Flourishing his exotic souvenir so that the room’s light highlighted its deep and varied colouring. 

            “They call them feathers.”

            “What are feathers?” Drift’s eyes crossed as Ratchet brought feather toward his face and swirled it over the tip of Drift’s nose. Tingles sharply spread across Drift’s cheeks and he jerked back, his expression tensing as if he was about to sneeze.

            “They’re soft.” Ratchet said, trying hard to endear Drift to his fanciful ideas.

            Drift craned his neck backward, lounging on Ratchet’s shoulder.

            “And what’s this for?” Drift tugged on the shorter length of fabric in Ratchet’s other hand, winding its smoothness between his fingers.

            “This is so you don’t see what’s coming,” the excitement deepened Ratchet’s voice, he blindly fumbled for the longer length of fabric, “and this,” he added the second cloth to the one he already held, “Is to make sure you don’t interfere.” The growling tone threatened Drift. Ratchet’s hands reached down suddenly and squeezed Drift’s waist. The curve of Drift’s aft pronounced more when he bucked, and Ratchet took the opportunity to steal a sly grope.

            “Are you up for this?” Ratchet reached higher than Drift’s aft, dragging his knuckles on deliberately soft trail and tickled up Drift’s spine. Before Drift could arch too far away from the devious endeavours to taunt his arousal, Ratchet gripped Drift’s forearms hard, and twisted them behind Drift’s back as a demonstration.

            Shuddering made the knot in Drift’s stomach grow tighter. Anticipation was a queasy, excitable feeling. As soon as Drift gave his approval, Ratchet draped the short length of fabric across Drift’s nose then pulled it tight. Drift could feel Ratchet’s knuckles fiddling with the knot against his head. The fabric was a dense, bloody red. Without his vision, Drift’s other senses kindled stronger and Drift was acutely aware of the warm pulse of need lubricating his valve.

            “Ratchet?” Drift called out experimentally after he no longer felt Ratchet’s hands scraping his helm. They rematerialised elsewhere, cupping Drift’s sticky groin. Ratchet pasted himself between Drift’s shoulders, their bodies rising and falling to the rhythm of their breathing, Ratchet whispered,

            “I’m here, Drift,” he palmed delightful friction across Drift’s closed array, “…open for me?”

            Ratchet’s eagerness was reciprocated. Drift’s interface panel peeled apart with a soft hiss and he moaned, suddenly it wasn’t the hard lining of his armour restricting him, but the far more pleasurable and plaint shape of Ratchet’s hand moulding flush against Drift’s swelling valve lips.

            “Like that?” Ratchet chewed Drift’s neck, urging more soft whimpers of delight and a much larger groan when Ratchet took his hand back.

            Drift’s body sunk forward, the bottom of his exposed interface array peeking deviously toward Ratchet, craving his attention. The restless shift of Drift’s hips doing his soundless begging. Hampered by the darkness of the blindfold, Drift used his imagination to visualise what would come next. Fingers, or maybe a tongue to antagonise his throbbing sensitivity. When the silk of his soon-to-be restraint stroked up the inside of his thigh, Drift yipped.

            Ratchet’s moist breath struck the nape of Drift’s neck as he chuckled, he pulled fabric on both ends until it was stretched tight and thin and threaded between Drift’s legs. Drift felt it rise steadily upward, toward his interface at an agonisingly slow pace. Signals of arousal and glee bounced through his body and by the time the fabric had slipped between Drift’s valve lips he was whining with loud, unabashed need.

            The silk creased and settled beside Drift’s exterior nub, rubbing it sweetly as Ratchet pulled the fabric between Drift’s legs.

            It was as if he was trying to saw Drift in half with a redundant, blunt object. Drift hadn’t felt anything this unusual before. The pressure distributed unevenly over and over and he cooed, squatted, and tried to put more stress of his nub each time the fabric grazed past it and between his valve, which tickled madly. The callipers flared with every undignified snort fiction teased from him.

            Ratchet lifted his hands up, straining the fabric caught under Drift’s weight until it slipped out of position and cut into Drift’s groin, inviting a tingly pressure to to pool under the chafing contact and make Drift’s circuitry buzz with charge.

            The movement of the silk turned to gentle strokes, the tension slackened and the fabric sagged.

            Ratchet dropped one end of the fabric, curled his fingers into the other end and smoothed Drift’s nub.

            “Put your hands behind your back.”

            Drift was startled, but complied eagerly, crossing his wrists. His valve shuddered goodbye to the sensuous cloth, Drift felt the material, saturated by his arousal, coil firmly round his wrists and detected the faint fragrance of his valve wafting free from between his thighs, rising up.

            Ratchet tugged on Drift’s binds to test them. The motion toppled Drift’s balance and Ratchet lowered him steadily onto his back.

            “ _Ah,_ ” Without sight, Drift couldn’t guess what would happen to him next, or that he was about to be kissed quite abruptly. Drift gasped and filled his mouth with Ratchet’s taste. It was long, hungry and wet. Drift gasped again when they peeled apart, and the strings of oral fluid rolled off his chin.

            The berth bent and popped as Ratchet shifted his weight. Drift wriggled, smiled, and widely exhibited the affluence of his fresh, needy valve.

            “You’re always very keen, Drift. Why don’t we take our time tonight?”

            Suddenly, Drift couldn’t feel Ratchet’s weight on the berth anymore. Concern breezed through his circuits. The spread of his thighs widened, head twitching in the direction Drift thought he heard Ratchet’s voice come from.

            “You’re leaking, Drift.” Ratchet was at the bottom of the berth, “The more you spread your legs, the more I see coming out.”

            Drift stretched his legs purposely, making his joints burn and _pushed_. He felt something hot trickle down the crease of his aft and had visions of holding himself open, gaping for Ratchet’s pleasure, but as his knuckles dug deeply into his spine, Drift was reminded of his fantasy’s impossibility.

            “Touch me,” Drift begged.

            “How?”

            “Softly.”

            Something briefly teased across Drift’s feet and got intimate with his heel gears. The feather.

            Drift couldn’t bear it, he shrieked and threw his legs up high. Ratchet seized Drift’s ankles and yanked them back to the berth.

            “Don’t make me tie your legs down. Stay still.”

            The tip of Drift’s foot was enveloped in something hot and wet. Drift could feel the pressure of Ratchet’s tongue - a bear contrast to the tingle of the feather teasing the smooth lines of Drift’s rippling calf.

            The sensation confused Drift’s arousal. His valve spasmed and his under inflated spike stirred in the recess of its sleeve.

            Ratchet’s tongue followed in the path stroked by the feather. His weight crushed Drift’s feet to the berth so that when Ratchet teased Drift’s kneecaps with soft, swirling patterns, Drift couldn’t kick out.

            Deep wheezes burned Drift’s throat. He rolled his head from side to side and Ratchet felt the hard shapes of Drift’s feet push into his chest. He pursed his lips on one knee, the feather in his hand continued to draw gentle circles opposite. 

            Drift snorted hard, his upper body convulsing and the ripples shook more fluids through the bulging lips swallowing Drift’s valve.

            “Do you like it?” The feather slipped higher again, tickling the outside of Drift’s leg.

            “ _Hnng.”_

            Ratchet paused.

            “Tell me.”

            Drift’s fists tightened behind his back, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his legs still.

            “Yes!” Drift puffed, tipping his head toward the ceiling as if in preyer. “I…I want more.”

            The feather moved back down his leg, deleting all of its progress. Frustration eked into Drift’s charge.

            “What about you?” Drift warbled in an attempt to hide his all consuming desire and trick Ratchet on top of him. “Are you enjoying?” Not being able to see wasn’t as much of a limitation as Drift had presumed. It excited him to think of Ratchet kneeling in front of his valve, revelling at the sight and chewing his lips, “Is your interface open?”

            Ratchet’s ventilations shook when he spoke.

            “No,” although, it pinged him every uncomfortable second, throbbing with desire.

            “Good.” Drift swallowed hard, “Is it uncomfortable?”

            Heat bloomed behind Ratchet’s cheeks. Drift laughed some more, “Is it tight?”

            Yes, it was unbearable. Ratchet could scarcely think. The sight of Drift’s valve made Ratchet yearn to guide himself into the dripping hole and bury his girth until Drift’s body could accept no more. Another desperate signal to release nagged at Ratchet’s addled processor, and his hands twitched at the wistful thought of touching between his sticky thighs to find out if he was as wet as his playmate.

            Rumbling his resistance, Ratchet lunged forward, winding Drift as he settled against Drift’s middle, tormenting Drift’s sensitive sides with his fingertips.

            “This isn’t about me!” Ratchet said gruffly, unsure if he’d been heard over Drift’s riotous honking laughter.

            He leaned back again, Drift settled and fought for breath. In the blessed pause, Ratchet stared up the length of Drift’s body admiringly, eager to sample every supple aspect of his features. 

            “Ratchet?” Drift sounded drowsy, arching and spreading, like a feline enjoying the heat.

            Ratchet moved again, hot, heavy breathes stroked the inside of Drift’s thighs, the feather swirled so softly round and around Drift’s exterior node and Ratchet watched Drift’s teeth curl under his lips.

            “Drift, what did we say? No holding back, remember?”

            “Hmmm,” Drift whined, the iris of his valve trembling under the feather’s soft caress. He could barely feel it, only a gentle tickle to agitate his wild arousal. A brassy laugh burst out of Drift’s chest.            

            “Better.” Two fingers shoved deeply and suddenly into Drift. The unexpected push making Drift’s insides squeeze tight around him. Ratchet forced his fingers in all the way, agonisingly close to Drift’s ceiling node and his thumb squashed Drift’s nub, which had grown accustomed to the quivering licks of the feather.            

            “ _Ahh!”_ Drift threw his legs up, the sting travelled deeply. Not deep enough. Moaning loud Drift bucked his hips forward and was limited by the knobbly stop of Ratchet’s knuckles digging into the lips of his valve. Drift heard Ratchet shifting, and a breath of hot air was soon being directed over his nub, the tingles crawled as far as Drift’s fuel tank and Ratchet felt Drift’s lower half shudder.

            “You like that?” Ratchet blew air over the nub again, and drew his fingers back. A heady smell of lubricant rose irresistibly. He stooped down and took a long lick, dabbing his tongue along the newly exposed length of his fingers to mop up the mess then slurped more off the rim of Drift’s valve.

            The tips of his fingers were caught between Drift’s callipers, the rest of his valve left needy.

            “nnnn, Ratchet!” Drift’s ankles balanced on Ratchet shoulders, a fat bead of moisture travelled down his thigh and met with Ratchet’s lips on its journey. Ratchet’s gaze flicked up to where Drift was lying, flushed and panting hard, his chest shuddering with every ragged breath.

            “Are you getting hard, Drift?”

            Drift gurgled,

            “W-what?”

            Ratchet planted a suckling kiss on Drift’s thigh before he abandoned Drift’s valve, choosing to grind the heel of his palm over the sealed hub disgusting Drift’s spike instead as Ratchet rapidly ascended Drift’s body, pushing Drift’s legs higher until they were entirely bent over Ratchet’s shoulders and his knee caps were close to nudging Drift’s chin. The bending put a strain on Drift, Ratchet could feel his body rattling around him like a cage as raw energy pooled in Drift’s joints.

            “I asked,” Ratchet’s tone was low and ripe with sinful promise, “Is your spike housing getting tight?”

            Drift sensed the mirth making Ratchet’s expression gleam. He thrust his hips _up_ and the pressure of Ratchet’s hand grew against Drift’s spike housing.

            “Y-Yeah!” He released it without being told do so, Ratchet felt a slick trail of prefluid get dragged across his middle during the gradual inflation of Drift’s spike. It forced a space between their bodies and naturally moulded to Drift’s shape. Underneath his stomach, Ratchet could feel the heavy pulse of Drift’s arousal and shifted some more before drawing back. The surplus of fluid weeping from tip of the spike left a stain on both of them and Drift couldn’t see it, but he could feel the sticky ooze cooling quickly on his plating and trickling between his seams.

            “Ratch’,” Drift’s face relaxed as the tension in his legs eased, the stress pooling like liquid heat in his joints trickled back into Drift’s frame. Relief felt luxurious, Drift arched each curve of his body and his unrestricted spike bobbed freely. “Ratchet,” Drift murmured again, feeling lonely in the heady arousal and the blackness that concentrated his needs. The more Drift squirmed the heavier Ratchet’s breathing seemed to get, Drift could feel the warm ventilations rolling over his plating. If he kept doing what he was doing, maybe it would invite more attention.

            He received the torturous stroke of the feather, tickling the length of his spike from root to tip. Drift wanted to scream.

            “Ratchet!” Drift arched higher, using his shoulders to thrust him up while his tethered hands pinned him back. Fat pearls of energon trickled down Drift’s aft, they rippled when Ratchet dragged the feather through the crease of the transfluid slit.

            “ _b-ah!”_

            “Easy, Drift.”

            Drift’s insides tightened.

            “Please!”

            “What are you begging for?” Ratchet’s fingertips skimmed Drift’s waist and increased his sensitivity, the band of pressure making his spike heave as he drew nearer to the edge of overload constricted and Drift’s sounds turned to guttural, needful pleasure. 

            “I wanna overload!” He whined, “I wanna look at you when I do.”

            “You wanna look at me?”

            Drift chewed his lips, the sheepish nod was a demure contrast to his demands. Ratchet stroked the feather down the underside of Drift’s twitching spike and through the hot core of Drift’s valve until the feather was matted with lubricant. Ratchet admired the sheen of fluid coating the individual blades attached to the long stem before stretching forward and wiggling the wetted tip under Drift’s nose. 

            Drift was disgruntled, the wetness lingered and his face screwed up tight,

            “Ratche”-

            The blindfold was suddenly gone. Drift’s vision was blotted out again, this time by Ratchet’s face crushing against his own, prying Drift’s lips apart with his tongue. Drift pressed back, equaling the force, head pushing off the berth.

            Ratchet’s spike had a fat head, Drift recognised it immediately as it nosed against his shuddering valve callipers. His pleas to be fragged were muffled but insistent as he spoke into Ratchet’s mouth. All of their desperate sounds dissolved into one argent groan as Ratchet slipped the head of his spike inside.

            Simultaneously, Drift’s callipers were forced to flare wide as the rest of his valve bared down, seeking to suck in the rest of Ratchet’s girth. Overload started at his feet, which tingled with bliss, and travelled like a heatwave, up and up, coming from both directions. Warmth licked up Drift’s thighs and tricked down from his gut.

            Drift thought he had everything he was going to get… and then Ratchet pulled out.

            A wild, volatile whine filled the room. Drift threw his hips down on the berth, like he was having a tantrum and pleading for more.

            Ratchet mouthed down Drift’s jaw, sinfully stealing his spike further and further away from Drift’s impassioned, desperate valve.

            “Look at me, Drift.”

            Ratchet was holding himself between Drift round thighs again, he looked ragged, dragging his spike out of the splendid heat of Drift’s core must’ve been an almighty challenge in will power, and so it should be, Drift smirked. Or wanted to, his mind was mirthful, but his body was wrecked by anticipation. His mouth gaped, panting hot, misty breathes.

            “Please, Ratchet, _please_ ,” He whined, his knees sloping so far apart it was nearly painful. Everything throbbed in his groin: his spike, his valve, his _circuitry._ It was agonising bliss.

            Then, the feather, ruined by Drift’s lubricants, was in Ratchet’s hand again, and Drift felt nothing, but yearning for contact of any kind, precious touch willing to caress and drag out his overload.

            “Please, Ratchet. I need you!”

            The feather tickled the lips of his valve then, with a negligible push, swirled _deeper._ Drift’s callipers spasmed, a fresh wash of lubricant drenched the feather, gluing it to his sticky insides. Ratchet rolled the stem through the mess and Drift’s feet started to life off the berth again, rising like the waves of his charge, drawn toward the roiling tension making energy churn in his gut. Self-restraint was forgotten and Drift chanted deep urgent sounds of imminent release.

            “Look at me, Drift.”

            “ _Ah-uh,_ ” Drift’s face was a mess. His chin was painted in drying spittle and heat flushed his cheeks and chest. He watched Ratchet purse his lips and lean into Drift’s trembling thighs, breathing in the smell of Drift’s warm interface. The feather slipped out of Drift’s aft, and dragged tenderly down the crease of his behind. The resulting spasm rocked Drift prematurely into Ratchet’s mouth, his nub was squashed under a soft kiss…and nipped.

            Drift’s feet curled, tension broke across his frame, half laughing, half wailing, it was unimaginable euphoria. Drift’s optics screwed shut and he felt energon throbbing in his head. The last squeeze of transfluid was milked out of Drift’s spike with the aid of Ratchet’s firm hand and Drift melted into the berth, shaking, too exhausted to move.

            Ratchet came to him, pressing a sticky handprint into Drift’s chest as he crawled awkwardly up the berth. He teased favoured joints and seams with the stiff feather ruined by a flood of valve juice. The strokes didn’t have the same effect now that their intensity was buried by the power of overstimulation.

            Ratchet lay down beside Drift, his aura hummed with satisfaction that Drift pleasurably took responsibility for.

            The feather was twirled in front of Drift’s nose and he regarded the instrument of his torture. Part of him wanted to reach out, close his hand over Ratchet’s and push the feather aside, which reminded him of the numb ache burning in his trapped arms.

            “When you untie me,” and maybe a while after that too, “I’m gunna pin you down and see how much you like being teased.”

            Ratchet had a bellowing laugh. It was uncommon to hear. He tipped Drift onto his side and accessed the binding.

            “When you have the energy for it, I look forward to finding out.”

            Drift frowned as he was untied, hit by the striking realisation that even though tonight had revolved around him smiling, Drift seldom saw his cantankerous berth mate publically crack a grin either. Ratchet was famed for being crotchety and Drift begged to differ.

            The fabric slid away from his wrists and Drift massaged away the stiffness in his joints. He immediately decided that he wasn’t the only one who deserved a good belly laugh tonight. A plan was starting to materialise, first it involved capturing the feather.


End file.
